Devils and Dreams
by Mai1
Summary: Sometimes life throws you an unexpected curve


Title: Devils and Dreams  
  
Author: Mai  
  
Email: Maisfeeka@AOL.com  
  
Feedback: Always nice  
  
Distribution: Cover Me. Others, just let me know, please.  
  
Disclaimer: Alias and its characters do not belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended here. Ree is mine.  
  
Summary: Sometimes life throws you an unexpected curve  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Classification: Drama, angst  
  
AN: Thanks to Karen T. for being such a fabulous beta and to Robin for giving me some great suggestions!  
  
**************************** "Devils and Dreams"  
  
Usually I think I'm pretty clear on the things I should and shouldn't do. Usually I don't struggle too much over what should be a simple decision.  
  
But this. Nothing about this is simple.  
  
He came to me in the middle of the night. Slipped into my bed so quietly that I didn't wake up. Nothing new about that. The man's like a cat - silent and forever sneaking up on me. If he ever decided he wanted me dead, I'd never know what hit me.  
  
But I'm getting off track.  
  
He came to me in the middle of the night and I woke some time later to find him cradling me against his chest, wide awake, and looking as if he'd just seen the end of the world. I tried to ask him what was wrong but he stopped me with a kiss.  
  
And then we were making love, losing ourselves in each other over and over again. When we finally stopped out of sheer exhaustion he held me close, as if he'd never let me go, and said six simple words as I was drifting off to sleep.  
  
"She's alive. And she shot Sydney."  
  
The amazing thing was that I knew exactly whom he was talking about. Her. The woman who had betrayed him. Who had hurt him so badly that sometimes I think he'll never fully recover. The wife who, until recently, he believed had died some twenty years ago.  
  
I pushed myself upright in bed. "My God, Jack," I'd said. "Is Sydney all right? Are you?"  
  
"Sydney will be fine," he told me and then his phone rang and he was gone - barely taking the time to make sure all of his clothes were on straight.  
  
I sat there in bed, stunned. I couldn't move, couldn't speak. And then the tears came - out of nowhere. Tears for Jack, for Sydney, for the horrifying truth they had to face, and, I'm sure, for me - even though I don't like to admit that I can be that selfish.  
  
I didn't see or hear from Jack the next day. Or the next. Or the next. I didn't know if something had happened to Sydney or if maybe I had said or done something - or left something unsaid or undone. Or if he just didn't feel he could face me for some misguided reason of his own.  
  
I suppose I could have called and left a message, but I didn't. I'm not really sure why. Pride? Consideration of what he was going through?  
  
Fear?  
  
In any case, when the CIA contacted me and said they had someone they wanted me to work with, I jumped at the opportunity. Anything to distract myself, to take my mind off of wherever the hell Jack Bristow was and if I was ever going to see him again.  
  
They took me to some sort of hugely secret holding facility. Miles of passageways. Guards and checkpoints and a security system like you wouldn't believe. After what seemed like forever I finally got to where the woman was being held.  
  
There was a chair and a writing desk set up for me and she was there on the other side of a glass wall, staring out into space through a painted over window. I felt uncomfortable about disturbing her, so I set my things out while I waited for her to notice my presence.  
  
I found myself looking at her with an artist's eye. She was tall and slender, her body honed from activity - as opposed to the muscles you'd find on someone who merely uses the gym a great deal. Her brown hair was medium length and pulled back from her face.  
  
And her eyes, when she finally turned around to face me, were those of a predator.  
  
She watched me for a time. I'd say she stared, except no look that intent and searching could truthfully be called a stare.  
  
She assessed me. Took my measure. And then allowed her lips to curve into a small feral smile which said she'd seen all she needed, and found me wanting in some way which pleased her immensely.  
  
I don't know when I've felt more disconcerted in my life. I tried to collect myself, be professional, move on to the task at hand, but she silenced me with a gesture.  
  
"Don't bother," she said, still with that smile playing on her lips. "That's not really why you're here anyway, so you might as well take your things and go. I'm not going to help you do any of your little sketches."  
  
I could see she was serious, so I picked up my pencils and pad and started to put them away in my case. She watched me as I did so, her head tipped to one side, as if she were memorizing me for some reason. I was just turning to leave when she spoke.  
  
"Actually," she said in an oddly conversational tone, "I just wanted to see the woman who is screwing my husband."  
  
For a minute I swear my heart stopped beating.  
  
I made myself turn to look at her, but it felt like I was moving underwater or in slow motion. I couldn't speak, wouldn't have known what to say if I'd been able to. And suddenly I realized... She looked like Sydney. Face a bit more rounded - more lived in - a bit taller... But definitely Sydney. How had I missed noticing it before?  
  
Or maybe I hadn't *wanted* to see it.  
  
Her lips were still smiling, but her eyes were completely dead - and immensely dangerous. "Oh yes," she said lightly, as if we were carrying on some innocuous conversation about the weather. "I've known about you from the beginning. It's too bad Tom didn't manage to finish you off in Paris before my husband killed him, but I suppose these things happen. And then. - well, I was too busy for a while to worry about the whore my husband is sleeping with."  
  
I managed somehow to turn away from her and call for the guard to let me out.  
  
She was almost pressed up against the glass now, watching me, looking for any weakness. "I just wanted to see you," she said again, "and to tell you to watch your step. I'm back now and everything's going to be different. If you know what's good for you. well." she shrugged and let her sentence fall away to silence.  
  
As I stepped into the adjoining room and the bars began to come down behind me, I heard her parting words.  
  
"Tell Jack his wife says hello."  
  
I don't remember anything about my trek back out through the checkpoints, the very succint debriefing, or the ride back to my house. Every bit of myself seemed to be tied up in reliving the encounter I'd just had and wondering what the hell I was supposed to do now.  
  
Should I tell Jack or pretend it never happened?  
  
Ignore it and hope it would all go away?  
  
In the end, though, I knew there wasn't really much of a choice. It was simple. If I didn't tell him, someone else would.  
  
And yet, somehow, nothing seemed simple any more. And my life, which four days ago was close to being everything I'd ever dreamed of, is now taking on all the aspects of one of my worst nightmares.  
  
********************  
  
"I met a woman. She had your mouth. She knew your life. She knew your devils and your dreams. She said, 'Go to him. Stay with him if you can, but be prepared to bleed.' " ~Joni Mitchell  
  
Meb 10-10-02 


End file.
